When Luthien woke his skin was the color of flat sand on a starless evening. What the hell happened last night? He sees a sky not quite black. The moon, a shredded toenail hanging on a milky weave. Leftover sensations of tepid glass–thick tumbler, lazy ice.

Last evening he stopped on his way home. Between shots of Jack Daniels, Luthien remembers a powerful mouth. In the small bar–a big woman whose billowing lips could suck the enamel off teeth. What did he do? Did that insane mouth hoover the color from his body? Luthien’s fair skin that goes lobster belly pink on the beach is now dull grey. Was he vacuumed dry? Luthien hopes he’ll wake and find his skin its proper shade. But Luthien you are grey. Too bad.

Nervously he squeezes his eyelids shut. Shelby and her tears. She’d found him and Cassandra porn-style in ‘their’ bed. So what if he and Shelby picked out the duvet with coordinating sheets. The woman in the bar had lips like clamps–tight and hot. Big, deep red wet lips. Did he hear a name from that strange sucking mouth? Martianna, Maliana, Marvianna? A sentence slithers into his ear. A velvet tongue like he’s never tasted in thirty-eight years. Translucent hands pulling his hair so hard his head whacks the bar wall and he doesn’t give a shit. Her surreal mouth, a serpentine force plundering his desperate throat. Did that burgundy wet nurse utter something to his bourboned-out body?

Think Luthien. You almost talked Shelby out of leaving post-Cassandra fuck. The name. It will be important. Take a moment. Go through the minutes after her lips sucked your dick through your throat. Those red lips whispered something.

“When a heart is shattered, its pieces fall to earth. Tears of pain water and grows the blood rose that springs forth the serpent that feeds on the rat.”

The bedroom clock screams. Luthien wakes to the sun’s rays slithering past his silk curtains. His mane of hair, dripping sweat, soaking the grey cotton sheets. Saturday morning. Shelby would have slapped the alarm off then woken him with a tender kiss. They used to make love on Saturdays.

Love writing flash fiction, especially monster-themed. I let loose a bit more when invoking character voices. Hope you enjoy, leftover sensations, as much as I enjoyed writing it 😘
As the writing gods sometimes align themselves, my dear, faraway writing friend, DS Levy also in this issue with a masterful short, Pit Viper.
adore this cover art by Aisha Ali!

writing flash fiction is such a joy for me
creating poems in the first person as I often do holds me back a bit
I sometimes fear a kind reader will think, “AnnMarie is sad, AnnMarie is whacked, AnnMarie better get her shit together…”😉

in flash fiction I can go hog-wild
it’s liberating for a mom of two teens, a giant husband, one small dog and caretaker of three elderly folks

this particular flash piece is based in reality
it is near and dear to my heart as is my sweet mom (her image in background)

Deep inside the crocodile’s dank maw,
we hid our treasure, a currency to happiness–our recompense
A thick-legged serpent with its murder’s row of razor sharp stalacites,
was to keep all predators away
We tossed paper after paper into that steel creature
Spent a lifetime saving gold to travel around the Horn of Africa
Oh, the promises sworn upon our sweating bed
witnessed from above, by a blood red moon
We were to journey by tall sail and broad sea
A pair of golden, umber eyes just below the surface followed our wake
When her reptilian curves broke the wet plain, she leaped on top
The tribal shield slid away from your body
We were to journey by sunfish sail and night sea,
but we drowned in the murky fathoms
While I was dreaming of observing crocodiles in their native habitat,
you turned into a cold-blooded reptile
I am taking what is mine, regardless of your crocodile tears,
as soon as my trembling fingers can punch the Barska keypad code

The portent outside Bell’s glass is reflected here in the doorway–
where the welcome mat is soiled glum grey
Dead leaves mimic the worn out bar’s foot traffic–
they blow in lost but looking
There is a staleness to the light that no one seems to notice
But me
I’m either special or nor drunk enough
“…you’re just too good to be true…”
Background mocks everyone in the damn place
The only thing too good to be true–
matching Powerball numbers or getting free refills
I opt for the latter
They tell me the kind of money that frees you from worries–
never alters the conversation an earthworm might whisper into your blue ear
Pour me another and double the double
The barmaid’s hair shines like the missing sun
My hair lost its luster when I lost other things
Three stools over, a shapely glass hits the mahogany
I’m watching cream liqueur swirl into a “Lady Luck”
I might just be observing someone who is worse off than me
I don’t need luck
I need a break
Don’t you, I mean when does the shit part end and the good crap start hitting the fan
That’s all I’m waiting for
Nothing too complicated
Like pouring a drink, or two, or three
I hear someone chatting up, Billy Eckstine
Maybe this poor soul is more lost in time than me
Well, something has just cheered me up, inexplicably so
There on the wall–
a seascape, its lighthouse back-illuminated, and I see him–
he’s behind the window–
a dark, handsome man wearing a sea captain’s hat
He’s waving to me
Finally, someone I can talk to who will listen

No light reflecting in those intense dark eyes. Windows to the soul, not on this face. Manhole covers down to deeper things. Between the furrowed brow where one might find introspection, I find knots of secrets the way bucks lock horns then die. He’d been a lover of men long ago. I know because he kept photo proofs stashed in shoeboxes under his saggy bed. The most dogeared photo was of silver-haired lovers entwined when they were past lovemaking and exhausted beyond repair. It wasn’t his figure in the careworn image. I once asked him who the two were. He told me it wasn’t for him to say, the couple in the photo were in love and love is a sacred thing one must hold dear. I asked if deer locked horns because they were in love. He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “No young one, when bucks lock antlers they are horny. Animals have fellowship. Humans have love. Love is a gift and it must be cherished.”

Around his apartment, black and white photos cling to their slice of wall space. Clouds stick to heaven the very same way. Each image perfectly soldiered into painted symmetrical wood. The sturdy black frames cannot diminish the powerful subject matter within. Love. Curving, languid nudes in soft light sometimes wrapped with white sheets like gossamer wings. Decades ago, my uncle was hired to shoot elegant boudoir stills for couples. Most of these amorous pairs commissioned him early into their young marriages. When their skin glowed beneath hot halogens and their figures flowed smooth like silk honeymoon lingerie. Each photo paper lover appeared sculpted in form and perfectly matched to their partner’s body. My uncle had an artful way with autonomy. Names were never known. Gazing at one of his large black and white images is akin to admiring a marble figure whose face is left trapped inside stone, much like Rodin often made the artistic choice to leave casting seams.

Uncle Milo has since lost his eight-five percent of his vision. His elegant wavy hair is silver-white. Those intense marble eyes now covered in a milky glaze. He’d call it dodging light in the dark room. Today, I ask him again who the two silver-haired lovers were. He responds in his whiskey voice, “Young one, they were the only partners who respected the sanctity of love beyond the beauty of their flesh. Their love was the most honest love I’ve ever witnessed in my small life. I’ve accumulated a great wealth, to have captured such treasure.”